Stepbrother Bastard Read Free Page B

blinking softly in the darkness.
Pulling myself to kneeling, I tug open the creaky venetian blinds to
investigate. I don ’ t have to look very far
to find the source of the bright light. There, on the next lot over from the
motel, is a low brick building facing the highway. The place was totally hidden
from view as I drove up. It would be a fairly nondescript structure, were it
not for the glaring neon sign blinking above it, luring in weary travelers like
moths to a flame. The sign ’ s directive is simple: “ Drink
Here ” it reads, with an arrow
pointing straight to the front door.
    “ Can ’ t
very well ignore a literal sign, ” I murmur, smiling at the
kitschy signage. Maybe a nightcap would help me chill out?
    The
anxiety-ridden part of my brain reels against the suggestion, and I immediately
question the wisdom of braving a dive bar on the side of the road…at midnight,
by myself. But to my surprise, the long-dormant curious side of me insists on
an adventure before turning in. I ’ ve
had a lot of trouble getting excited about anything since Dad passed away. Even
this slightest spark of interest is out of the ordinary. I can ’ t
just let it fizzle out.
    Squaring
my shoulders, I rise to my feet and suit up. And by suit up, I mean making sure
that my canister of pepper spray is tucked handily in my back pocket. (Hey, you
never know.) I don ’ t want to wrestle with my
suitcase again, so my current uniform of boyfriend jeans and a white tank top
will have to do. I run my fingers through my long, dirty blonde bob, dash on
some mascara, and head out into the warm June night.
    Gravel
crunches beneath my feet as I try and look
casual, strolling toward the roadside bar. There are a couple of cars parked
outside, and a handful of motorcycles to boot. I have about as much experience
hanging around with biker types as I do kicking back with Siberian tigers. For
all I know, they ’ re equally dangerous
company to keep. The men I ’ ve dated have always been
upstanding, clean-shaven, law-abiding blokes … each
one more painfully boring than the next. I ’ ve
never been one to tangle with bad boys. But tonight, I ’ ll
wander into the tiger's cage. Even if only to see one up close.
    With
a deep, steadying breath, I step up to the door of the bar. I can hear voices
and music from inside, an appealing sort of din. The wide front windows could
use a good scrubbing, but I don ’ t spot any bullet holes.
That ’ s
a good sign, right? Wrangling my face into a neutral expression, I push open
the heavy door and cross the threshold.
    The
signature smell of liquor, cigarette smoke, and sawdust rolls over me as my
eyes adjust to the low light of the bar. An ancient juke box wheezes out a
classic hard rock tune, which underscores the rumbling tones of male
conversation. A group of men in leather cuts are huddled around the pool table
in back, in the middle of a game. There are a few women hanging around them,
too, rocking micro-mini skirts and bare midriffs. The bar itself, a long slab
of rough hewn wood, is spotted with solo men, cradling their beers in silence
and watching a hockey game playing on the TV hanging in the corner. There are
enough people around to put me at ease, but not so many as to be overwhelming.
    So
far, so good. Now maybe I ’ ll actually be able to
relax and enjoy this drink. I sidle up to an empty stool at the very end of the
bar and climb up. This place is definitely built for big, strapping men, so it
actually does feel like a climb for my shorter self. The guys around me are so
engrossed in their games and pints, that they don ’ t
even notice my presence. I have to admit, I ’ m
just the slightest bit put out by this. I half expected all their heads to turn
in unison when a new woman walked into their midst, like in the movies. Guess I ’ m
not exactly what you ’ d call a classic
head-turner, though honestly I don ’ t
spend too much time worrying about it.
    I
peer around the stoic,